


Mirror Match

by EvilEkat



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Everyone is Dead, Gen, also some drinking and smoking, also there is a lot of ford x sleep with no triangle demons interrupting it, bewarb, but luckily that is not a problem, but nothing serious, seriously though everyone is dead, so this technically has character death but not really, the stans are just not complete without alcohol, there is also no lab safety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-06-04 05:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6643453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilEkat/pseuds/EvilEkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The Stans are perfectly content with their lives in Gravity Falls, dealing with ghosts and the problems they try to cause. They're prosperous, healthy, and most importantly, happy. It's not until two new "ghosts" show up on their doorstep that they start to face problems, and begin to wonder if they're really as happy with life as they tell themselves. (Cross-posted on Fanfiction Net)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So... This story, it's uh... Well a story with a random AU I came up with... Unlike Versability, I can guarantee that there are absolutely no triangles this time around. None. I promise. Not unnamed, not given names like Not A, Dee Man, Gene Uine, Norm Al, T. Rust-Worthy, Hugh Mann... I promise that there will be no triangle demons. Just regular demons. Also ghosts. 
> 
> Which is the basic premise of this AU. Stanley and Stanford are perfectly happy twin brothers living in Gravity Falls and there are no triangle demons trying to ruin their lives with gateways to unimaginable power. Alright, I'll stop bringing up Bill, starting now. Anyway, they're running a business centered around ghosts. Stan has a funeral home, so vengeful spirits can finally be at peace. (You'd be surprised how many people hate their first funerals.) It's also for people, but it's really the ghosts who give him the business. 
> 
> Stanford deals with all the objects possessed by ghosts and demons that people bring in. Sometimes they choose to stay attached, other times they go free, and the vast majority of the time, the ghosts choose to stick around the Pines family household because they like the twins. In addition to this, there is a small percentage of times when a ghost is too dangerous to be set free, and so they have to remain. Think Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends meets Wallace and Grommet: Curse of the Wererabbit. 
> 
> If I were to summarize this AU in one sentence, it would be: Stans are happy twin brothers living happy lives with a bunch of ghosts, and then not-so ghostly twins are shoved into their lives. 
> 
> I hope people like this idea as much as I do!
> 
> Alternate Chapter Title: Stanford Pines is an Owl (And I Wrote a Whole Paragraph to Explain Why that is.)
> 
> Read, review, and enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Gravity Falls.

The first storm of summer threatened to start as they walked to the diner. Thunder ominously rumbled, and distant flashes of lightning crackled. The stormy, grey clouds were mostly crowded around the western mountains. Their undersides almost seemed to scrape against the pointed tips, like they were barely squeezing by. The dark clouds were outlined in a bright, shining gold. The setting sun was behind them, rays were still sneaking through the open patches.

There was a bitterly cold edge to the usually humid summer wind. That meant hail was falling somewhere, not far off from them. While the thunder clouds were still distant, the sky above them was a solid, grey. It hid all of the sky from view, like one surface. The wind fiercely whipped at their hair. The twins found themselves leaning forwards against the gale, fighting to walk with their faces towards it. Neither of them was dressed for the coming weather.

Stanford was perhaps the better dressed of the two, but not by much with his red turtleneck and patchy, brown-yellow trench coat. The coat was not waterproof. It fluttered ridiculously in the wind, since the man refused to button it. But, instead of making him "look gritty and mysterious" like he insisted it did, the coat gave one the impression of a bird's wings, wildly flapping. His sweater and large glasses did not help diminish the idea. The turtleneck was puffy, like a bird's down, and his glasses made his eyes look larger than they were. One could not help but think of an owl when they looked at Stanford Pines. A large, flustered, and typically spaced-out owl.

The spaced-out owl was walking with his brother, Stanley. Stanley was as about as ready as Stanford for the coming thunderstorm. That was to say not at all. He was still wearing his work clothes. As a matter of fact, Stanford was as well, but he could show up naked to his work and it wouldn't make that big of a difference. People would raise more than a few questions if Stanley did so, and because of this, he wore business formal: a black blazer with matching pants, and white shirt in good need of a washing. Around his neck was an outdated maroon ribbon tie, so creased, it was obvious that the man had been wearing it for years.

And so, these twins, who were woefully unprepared for the weather walked their way to the town diner. They did so in silence. There was an unspoken understanding that they would not be allowed in the establishment if they were soaked to the bones, and so they needed to hurry. Stanley reached the door first. He held it open for his brother, and gave a mocking bow. Stanford scoffed at the gesture, only to run into the door that followed afterwards. Much like a bird (perhaps even an owl) that had run into a well-polished window.

One could not call the windows and doors of the diner well-polished however. Stanford had just looked away at the wrong place during the wrong time. The windows had spots of dirt and smudged fingerprints all along them. They were greasy from human contact, and some of the ledges had dead or squashed bugs sitting on them. Most of the diner was in a state similar to this.

The vinyl cushions in the booths were overstuffed in some places, and rock hard in others. The seats at the counter were loose, causing a person to spin out of control if their footing slipped. One of the tables had a raccoon living under it, making the gum on the underside the least of a person's problems. That was not the only one of the place's pest problems however. The building was elevated, and a pack of strange beavers had decided to make it their home, despite the fact that it was a solid mile from the lake. Perhaps it had to do with the building's definite resemblance to a large log.

The wooden walls and floors did not help keep them away. The beavers loved eating through the boards. They were scuffed from years of people treading over them. They were splintery, the heads of nails stuck up in the most inconvenient of places, waiting to trip someone up. It was no problem for the locals, all of whom frequented the place. The waitress expertly dodged them, swerving around the suspect floorboards and serving the nearest table.

The diner may have been a dilapidated mess of a greasy spoon, but it did have good coffee, and the service was the best. It was also one of the only places that let one run a high tab. Occasionally a bill would be presented, but the waitresses never really kept proper track of what everyone owed. It was sure to be less than expected. Perhaps this also had to do with Stanley's incessant flirting with the main waitress and cook. But the place remained open, and everyone was happy, so no one questioned it.

Stanford recovered from his fall, adjusting his glasses and blinking owlishly. Stanley hoisted him up by the arm. They took a seat by the window. Stanley caught the waitress' eye from over the counter, she gave a little nod in response. They would have the usual. Not a moment later, two cups of steaming hot coffee was brought over to them. Stanley flattened his fingers and pressed them to his lips, and then gestured towards the woman. She blushed, and fluttered her false eyelashes back at him.

"Oh you silly man! You know I don't understand your silly signs!"

Stanley had not even realized that he had signed his response. He cleared his throat. The man could not recall when he had last spoken, his line of work didn't involve that much speaking aloud. He was still thinking in signs after the latest repeat funeral. Tough crowd those guys had been, it was hard to joke around them with how seriously they were taking everything.

"Thanks." He gruffly replied.

"Oh it was nothing! Your food'll be ready soon! Wink!"

Stanford rolled his eyes when the waitresses turned her back. He rolled his hand forwards. Then he made a V-shape with his fingers, holding it up to his forehead. Stanley didn't need to see any more to know exactly what his brother was asking.

"How stupid can you get?"

"They're not interested in learning." He replied. "No one really is."

"Signs only." Stanford announced aloud. "No more flirting with the waitress. I want to be able to stomach my meal tonight."

Stanley rolled his eyes back at his brother and signed;

"I haven't said a single flattering thing to her yet."

"That's what you said last time. And look how that wound up!"

"You're just jealous. If the waitress liked you instead you would do the same."

The next gesture wasn't true American sign language, but it was a common symbol for something that anyone could recognize. Stanley chuckled at his brother's four-fingered flip-off. But before he could respond, their food arrived.

Both had hamburgers and golden-brown fries, cooked to perfection. Stanley had crisp bacon and melting cheese with his burger. With was smothered with sweet onions and mushrooms. It was dripping with ketchup and mustard. There was a large dill pickle skewered on top of the sesame bun. Stanford had the same as his brother, sans the mustard, and with the addition of mayonnaise.

Out of habit, they both checked underneath the top bun, to make sure there had not been a switch-around. Then, they sampled each other's fries. After a moment of deliberation, they picked up their burgers, and then swapped plates. Stanford liked vinegar with his fries, thus he didn't want them too salty. Stanley liked the combination of the salt with ketchup. Since Stanford's were "better" than his own, they swapped.

As they dug into their meals, it began to spit. Flecks of rain splashed against the windows, and dotted the ground. A clinking sound began, pattering on the roof and against the windows. The hail had arrived, the balls of ice were small, and did not last for long in the ground. They melted quickly. There was a large crash of thunder, the lights of the diner flickered, and there was an involuntary gasp of surprise from everyone. Then, the rain started to pelt down, a solid curtain of water. Steam rose from the sticky, hot ground. It pressed against the window, shrouding the view in white beads of moisture.

The rain went on like this for several minutes, and then suddenly ceased. During this point there was more lightning than ever. Every time there was a flash, the lights would flicker, and everyone would brace themselves for the tiny quakes that followed. Then the spitting started, the hail followed, and then the heavy rain returned. The storm followed this pattern throughout the time they ate their meal.

When they finished, they sat in a comfortable silence, full, and sleepy. There was no need for them to talk, with sign language or with words. The diner was warm and cozy in comparison to the stormy outdoors. It was easy to sit and enjoy the comfortable atmosphere. The twins drained the last drops of their coffee during this time, waiting for the effects to kick in, and the rain to let up. When it finally did, Stanley left a tip on the table, and they went on their way.

It was fully dark now. The streetlights formed organish hallos in the inky darkness, but they could not penetrate very far. Besides, their route took them through the forest, where there were no lights. The lightning would illuminate the area for the briefest of seconds. They would freeze during these times, wondering if it had stricken anything near them. But, they reached their home in once piece, if not a little soaked.

Stanley shook his head, successfully splashing more water at his brother. Stanford was fishing through his pocket for the keys, thus he could not defend himself. But he then took off his coat. He proceed to twist it over his brother's head, giving him a shower. In response, Stanley shoved him off the porch and into the rain. Even though it was pouring and the air snapped with electricity, the twins somehow found themselves slinging mud and water at each other on the front lawn.

Mud coated their glasses and got into their shoes. They sunk into the squishy ground, and their clothing stuck to their skin. Just as it seemed like they had washed off the mud, one of the twin would push another over, and they would be dragged down in revenge. They laughed, mud and grass got into their mouths, but neither of them cared. They couldn't beat the rain, so they may as well join it.

Their fighting stopped when a bright, white light was shone in their eyes. But unlike the lightning, it remained. They both hissed, and covered their eyes. They stood up, squinting at the source. It was a car. Two people got out. They were dressed in bright yellow rain slickers and matching boots.

Stanley looked at Stanford. Stanford looked at Stanley. They were both coated in mud and blades of grass. They may as well be a part of the lawn. They frantically tried to brush themselves off, not wanting to deter any sort of potential customer. The couple was walking up to them. It was impossible to see their faces with their backs to the light. They looked more like silhouettes than anything.

"Are you the Pines brothers?" A man's voice asked.

"That's us!"

"We heard that you take in... Demons?"

"Ghosts mostly. Demons are a little more tricky to-"

"Take them." A woman's voice said, shoving a box in Stanford's arms.

"Hold on, is this a willing situation? Do we have to want them?" Stanley asked.

"We think so." The man said.

"Please, just keep them! We can't-!"

Desperate, frightened people were nothing new when it came to their jobs. So neither was fazed by their scared reactions.

"Alright, we accept. Is there anything we can do for you-"

"Just don't put them together." The man commanded. "Whatever you do, keep them separate, and they can't hurt you."

"Will you want whatever these are-" Stanford shook the box. "Back once we've exorcised them?"

"NO!" They simultaneously yelled.

"Alright, just making sure. Sometimes people inherit heirlooms you know? You wanna' keep them in the family but there's an angry, vengeful demon attached and they decide to make your life miserable..."

They were not interested in hearing their story. The woman retreated to the car. There was another box in her arms, this one much larger than the one Stanford held, and there were holes poked in the side. There was a loud oinking coming from it.

"Is that a pig?"

"It'll placate her. She'll be restless without it if for some reason you put those mirrors together. Which you should _never_ **_ever_** do under _**any**_ circumstances. Even if they try to-"

"Wait is this thing a her or a them? Both? We're gonna' need some specifics here Buddy."

Stanford was more concerned about the fact that they had been given a _live pig_ with their ghost-demon than the nitty-gritty technicalities.

"Hey! We're not qualified to take care of a pig!"

No answer. The couple ran back to the car, slipping and sliding over the mud. There was a screech of tires, and they retreated into the night. The thunder crashed for the umpteenth time, and the rain started to pour down. There was a frightened squeal, and a rustling sound. Stanley had to adjust his grip on the box, the pig was heavy and its squirming wasn't helping. They stared at the empty driveway, dumbstruck. After all, what kind of people dropped off a pig at a possessed object depository? That was just plain weird!

"Whelp, we better get this stuff inside."

They took the boxes to the den. They were both cardboard, hastily sealed over with masking tape. Stanford got the exacto knife, and rescued the pig first. It squealed in fright, and its head burst out of the box. Stanley caught the terrified thing before it could go anywhere. It squirmed and screamed at the top of its tiny lungs. They both cringed. They needed a place to keep the thing while they settled this all. They settled for the bathroom. Stanley placed it in the bath, where it could not climb out. The pig merely slipped along as it paced the length of the tub.

In the meantime, the twins dried off, and put their soaked clothes in the wash. The mysterious box awaited them downstairs. In this box, there were two more boxes. Cases actually, made of a smooth ebony. It was plain, and polished until it had shone. But there were clear dents and scratches on the glossy surfaces. Someone (no doubt the previous owners) had tried to destroy it. Stanford took one case, and Stanley took the other. On the count of three, they flipped the latches and opened them.

In Stanford's, there was a circular mirror. It was gold. He knew it was real because Stanley's eyes grew wide and he smiled when he saw it. His brother could tell these sort of things right away. All around the circular mirror, there was a pattern of vines and leaves. They curled around each other. He turned over the mirror. On the back of it, the vines served as a border for an intricate pine tree. The handle was made of more circles, chains. The leaves traveled down the chains and snaked back to the top again. Stanford hesitated to hold the handle, thinking that he might break the fragile gold leaves.

Stanley also held a mirror in his hands. At first it appeared to be silver, but judging by the excited grin on his face, it was actually platinum. His mirror was a crescent moon in shape. The edges had star patterns on them. There was a shooting star on the back, more little stars and planets glimmered on its tail. The handle of this mirror a twisted design, like two strings twirling around each other. It took a moment for him to think of the right word to describe the look, but it came to him: a French twist. There was some blood on the actual mirror part. Common enough not to worry about. Stanley wiped it off with his thumb, leaving a brown smear on the surface.

"It's a sun and a moon." "It's the air and the land."

The twins looked at each other. Both had spoken out at the same time, and both had their own conflicting opinions on what the mirrors were. They stared at each other for a tense moment, but laughed it off instead.

"Either way, they're definitely worth lot." Stanley said. "We just need to get rid of the ghost, demon, whatever the thing is and we're in the clear! We'll be rich I tell you! Rich!"

"Only if whoever is in here wants to be exorcised." Stanford patiently reminded. "Speaking of which, I'm not seeing anyone."

"Huh. Maybe they're only visible with the mirrors."

They both rose to their feet, and held up the mirrors. Slowly, they pivoted in a circle, trying to spot anyone in the room with them. But the room was empty, all except for the mirror ghosts that were playing cards at the table. They weren't disturbed by anything, so it was safe to assume that no one new had entered the room when they opened the boxes.

"See anything?" Stanford asked.

"Old Lady Sanchez has got a royal flush and all of her money's on the table!"

The other visibly ghosts groaned as Stanley said this. They could hear him after all, even if they could not make any sound in response. The elderly woman triumphantly spread her cards to the group and took their chips. The others started to complain. Their mouths were moving but no sound could be heard. One woman turned to Stanley and started to sign more complaints towards him. Stanley gave her a grin and shrugged, before signing back.

_"He was the one who wanted to know."_

"I meant the newcomer you Knucklehead!"

"Nope. Nothing." Stanley said aloud. "Besides, didn't that guy say we shouldn't put them together? It must need that to appear!"

"Hm, that's usually only common in powerful entities, as a safeguard to keep hellish forces from breaking free and wreaking havoc against the entire universe." Stanford said, rubbing his chin. "Fascinating isn't it? Anyway, let's put 'em together Stanley, and meet our new tenant!"

"Whelp, I don't see any safety issues with that!" Stanley said, completely serious. "On three then. One, two-"

"THREE!"

The circle mirror fit perfectly within the crescent moon, forming one, large circular mirror. Stanley and Stanford tensed, awaiting some sort enormous reaction. But nothing happened. They just held one large mirror made of two smaller ones in their hands. It was very anti-climatic given all the ominous signs surrounding the things. They held up the mirror, wondering if the demon-ghost (or whatever it was, they really needed to clear that up soon) would become visible. However, all they saw was Old Lady Sanchez killing the others in cards.

"Well that was lame."

They both let out the breath they had been holding, disappointed with their results.

"I was hoping there would be a lot more fire and intimidating imagery."

"Maybe it's not the lady's style."

"Lady?"

"They called them a she. It's _her_ pig we got." Stanley explained.

"What if they're a them? Or a he?"

"It's usually the ladies that prefer to be subtle for a bit."

"How do you know they're not just shy?"

"We can sweat the ghost nomenclature later Poindexter."

"Didn't they say they are a demon?"

"Later." Stanley repeated. "Because I'm just about ready for bed after a disappointment like that."

"I'm sure they'll show up when they're feeling ready."

"'Course they will." Stanley yawned. "Night."

"Goodnight."

Stanley left, stretching and yawning as he did so. Stanford yawned too, it was contagious. He wondered if he should leave the mirrors together, or separate them. Perhaps the demon-ghost needed to regain some strength. Powerful entities usually had some sort of draining curse on them to prevent large amounts of destruction. So it was probably best to let whoever was in there recharge for a bit, so they could communicate. Stanford decided to lock up all the knives and flammables in the house, just in case they were in a destructive mood. They would show up when they wanted to, so they would just have to wait.

Stanford said goodnight to the ghosts in the room, and switched off the lights as he made his way to bed. That dinner and following mud-fight had tired him out. He needed a nice, long rest after everything today. Leaving so early for bed meant that no one saw the abandoned mirrors shine brightly on the table. Nor did anyone see the two ghostly figures that appeared from them.


	2. Two Times the Twin Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of the wonderful response so far you guys!
> 
> Alternate Chapter Title: One Plus One Equals the Window that Stanford Ran into During the Last Chapter [I'll draw it out on my Tumblr (which you should totally check out by the way.) if you don't understand.)
> 
> Read, review, and enjoy!

After last night's mud-fight and rainy disaster, Stanley was still feeling a little waterlogged. He wasn't all that interested in taking a shower because of this. But there was still grass in his hair, and he could feel dirt caked behind his ears. Besides, just because he was giving another eulogy today, he had to look professional for it.

It was toasty in bed. There was no better time to lay in there than during a rainstorm. Stanley could hear the little taps against his window and on the roof. They could almost drown out the shrill sounds of the birds' early-morning melodies outside. The rain was steadily and regular that morning, there was no thunder, or hail. The feeling in his bones told him that the rain would be around to stay for the next twenty-four hours. Listening to the constant patterning was soothing, he found it easy to doze off again.

The room was still dark, and he had discovered the perfect balance between warm and comfortable in bed. His pillows had barely been jostled in the night, they were in exactly the proper position. There was one for his head, which helped keep a constant state of darkness around him. The second one was propped against his back, for a feeling of security. He didn't want to roll out of bed by accident after all. He had kicked off his socks in the night, but managed to keep his feet warm thanks to the extra blanket he had on top of things.

There was no reason for him to wake up, beyond for work, and showing. He couldn't very well show up looking and smelling like a dead body. That was the cadaver's job, not his. Sure most ghosts didn't have the greatest sense of smell. Heck, the vast majority of ghosts they got in this place couldn't even talk, it was one of the main reasons why they had to pick up sign language. Ghosts in general had really terrible senses, they were also dumber than the average human. But they would still notice if he looked more like the corpse than the actual dead person. Stanley had to repeat this thought several times before he was able to convince himself to leave his comfy bed behind.

He managed to do it though. Stanley rolled out of bed, and slowly climbed up to the bathroom. He had to be quiet, for he knew that Stanford would still be sleeping. His brother sure liked his sleep, even more than he did. Stanford wouldn't appreciate it being disturbed by the likes of him at early o'clock in the morning. Stanley made sure to avoid the squeaky floorboards in the house.

He was silent as a ghost. He should know, they were usually everywhere in their place. Luckily most ghosts didn't make that much noise. Except for those weird corpse-wearers. Ugh those things were gross. But all the ghosts left during the daytime anyway. Their powers were weaker then, and they found the bright light difficult to see in. Almost the reverse of humans and their vision in the dark. At least, that was how the ghosts here had described it to him as.

Stanley did a quick sweep of the bathroom, making sure that he didn't have any unwanted occupants lurking in there with him. Even though it was daytime, he had known ghosts to try hiding in darker parts of the house. No one was visible or invisible this time around, so he pulled back the shower curtain. Stanley didn't know what he had been expecting, but it was definitely not a pig in a shower cap chewing on his rubber duck.

It took him a moment to remember why there was a pig in the bathtub. It was mostly his fault, yes, but the thing was having a bubble bath! They didn't even own bubbles! And it was holding Dr. Quackers! Stanley took the rubber duck and shower cap from the animal. As he stared at the pig, Stanley started to see red. That crazy thing was probably stealing all the hot water! _His_ hot water! Suddenly, Stanley realized that the pig couldn't have done this own its own. It must have been the ghost-demon thing!

Stanley whirled around, and came face-to-face with the newcomer. They were only visible in the mirror, and were shrouded by the steamy air. When Stanley looked around the bathroom, the fog and warmth had suddenly materialized in there. The figure was now outside of the mirror too. They were leaning over the bathtub, patting the pig on the head. As the image became clearer, Stanley noted that the apparition was very solid-looking, and they had colour as well, instead of the usual see-through blue of a ghost. So a demon child of some sort then.

They had taken on the form of a little girl. Her long, brown hair grew to her waist. It shone unnaturally in the light of the bathroom. The shadowed and lighter parts of her hair did not make sense, given how the light was hitting everything else. Her hair hovered ethereally around her, each lock seemed to have a life of its own, moving individually, all in separate directions. It was as if intangible hands were pulling at her from all directions, tugging and twirling the strands around their fingers.

The girl was wearing a magenta sweater with a shooting star on the front. Well now that mirror design from before made a whole lot more sense! She stared at him with piercing, cold eyes, even as she patted her pig on the head. There was the occasional splash of water as she cupped her hands, so she could pour water over its back.

"Hey there, Kiddo. What's your name?"

It was incredibly humid inside of the bathroom. Tendrils of mist rose through the air, and washed against every surface, leaving glittering beads of water. The floor was slippery underfoot, and Stanley was a little hesitant to move from his spot. He didn't want to fall. Yet, despite the fear of slipping he held in that moment, Stanley could not help but recoil.

_"Mabel."_

For a moment, the lightest whisper of a voice had brushed against his mind. Her lips moved, but they were not in synch with the sound of her voice. The movements were delayed. All at once, it felt as if a draft had blown through the room, despite its warm appearance. Ghosts weren't supposed to be able to communicate like that. Except for some of the higher ones, which weren't all that common. And last he checked, demons weren't supposed to do that, period. He'd have to consult with Ford about this one. She could practically speak to him, inside of his own mind. That was freaky.

"So your name's Mabel eh?"

She nodded, and went back to washing her pig.

_"Where are my parents?"_

"Er uh, I can't answer that. How old are you?"

_"Twelve."_ She smiled slightly and looked at her pig. The cold seemed to lessen as she did so. _"I'll be thirteen at the end of the summer!"_

"Whoa, that's nice. You uh, hoping for anything?"

Suddenly, the disarming chill of the room came back. Stanley felt his skin start to crawl, but he did not show any outward signs of alarm. The girl's hair turned towards him before her head did. The friendly smile she had worn before was no longer present. Instead, her mouth was set in a hard line. She continued to wash her pig, but her attention was obviously not on the animal.

_"How come we're not at home anymore?"_

"Well the couple that gave you to my brother and me were a little panicky. Not everyone handles being haunted that well you know? But we've pretty much seen everything. So-"

_"What?! We weren't haunting anyone!"_

"Well that couple-"

_"What couple?! What did they look like?!"_

"I didn't get a good look at their faces. How long were you with your latest owners for?"

_"Three days!"_

"Well that was quick. You must've really scared them."

_"We didn't scare them at all!"_

"Whoa, calm down there kid."

_"Calm down?! I will not calm down! Our parents wouldn't just give us away! I don't like you! You're a liar!"_

The door was fiercely opened and slammed shut. The steamy air dissipated almost immediately. When Stanley looked back at the tub, it was empty, dry as a bone. There was no sign of the pig that had been in it before. However, there was no hot water, just as if someone had used it all before him.

Stanley grimaced, and got into the chilly shower water. Dealing with this kid was going to be a lot of work. She seemed like a real emotional wreck. But then again, most dead people (or whatever she was, he still hadn't been cleared on that front) were miserable and moody. But did she have to use all the hot water for a pig?!

* * *

After their run home, and consequential fight afterwards, Stanford was incredibly hungry. Of course, Stanley wouldn't let him eat past nine in the evening (apparently he shouldn't get his schedule any more messed up than it already was) so he had to go to bed hungry. Now that it was morning, he had permission to raid the kitchen.

With a long stretch and a yawn, he slid out of bed. Stanford felt around for his glasses with one hand, and rubbed the dust out of his eyes with the other. After putting them on, he made his way to the kitchen. Coffee and toast seemed like an appealing option to him at the moment. He set the bread in the toaster, and poured some coffee (one of their tenants must have made it earlier) from the kettle. Then, he fished around the fridge for the butter and the coffee cream. But someone had used almost all of it, except for a little drop at the bottom. Of course, the infamous get-out-of-throwing-the-carton-in-recycling trick, he should have known.

Luckily, the milk was being more agreeable that morning. There was still three-quarters of it left. He poured some in his coffee and watched as the dark surface swirled in a white spiral, that lightened around the edges until the colour was even. He added two sugar cubes and popped a third in his mouth. His fillings protested in pain as he bit down on the sugar cube, but he ignored the unpleasant twinge.

The bread had been nicely toasted by this point, the perfect brown, even around the edges. The butter was solid and uncooperative at first, having been in the fridge. But the moment it touched the hot toast it started to melt. The clear yellow pools crept outwards, and the area of solid butter grew smaller. He spread it out once it had warmed enough, and then dropped the knife in the sink.

The butter quickly soaked into the toast. He got out the strawberry jam and then slathered both pieces with it. Then he took his plate and mug to the table. Breakfast looked like it was shaping up nicely. The gnomes had given them more bereavement jam (which was oddly good even when there wasn't a queen to mourn) and that meant he could eat it outside of gnome funerals. It really was the best in the forest, and very sweet, too.

However, he only got through one bite of his toast before he realized that something was up. The puzzle section of the newspaper was on the table, and someone had already solved everything! He had reserved the right to the Sunday puzzle section every third weekend of the month! Who had taken it from him?! Stanford took the newspaper and announced;

"Hey, whoever took my turn with the Sunday puzzles owes me a new copy! And don't try hiding because I'll find out who it is!"

_"Oh..."_ The new voice floated around his head in circles, echoing with a strange quality he had never heard before. _"Sorry."_

"Hold on a minute, are you the new ghost slash demon?"

_"That's me."_

It almost felt as if the voice was inside his head, and not coming from the room. He had never experienced something like that before, especially not in the daytime, when most of their tenants were resting. Ghosts didn't usually have access to people's heads. Perhaps a demon might, but they were much more malicious and invasive about it.

"Ah, well never mind then. You're not familiar with all the arrangements."

_"Oh. Thanks..."_

A tiny movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. There, in the warped reflection of his spoon, a boy came into view. He was sitting at the kitchen table, in the spot where the newspaper was. But the fascinating thing about this was that the sunlight from the window hit this spot directly. Ghosts didn't handle daylight that well, and he doubted that a demon would take things so calmly. Yet the boy appeared almost solid in the reflection.

"Let me get a mirror."

The house was filled with mirrors, so they could see anyone who wished to be spotted. There was a hand mirror in the kitchen drawer. Stanford had to turn his back to the child and hold up the mirror so he could see him. However, by the time he had done this, the boy had chosen to become corporeal. Stanford felt mildly exasperated by this, wondering why he had simply not turned visible before, instead of making him get a mirror. But seeing a ghost-like child sit in the sun was certainly a strange sight, it went against all of his research about them.

The boy was rather small, pale-looking, and Stanford was startled by the great likeness to Stanley, and himself. He had dark brown hair, almost the same colour that his own had been when he was young. Sure lots of people had brown eyes and brown hair, but the similarities were present in the shape of his face, and nose as well. Was this the being's natural form, or was it trying to deceive him in some way?

He was a very dreary looking child. He slumped against the table, and there were dark lines under his glazed-over eyes. The tone of his voice suggested defeat. He must have been the type to mourn his own death then. Perhaps he was not willing to leave the land of the living because of his age? Stanford was determined to find out. He took another bite of his toast, and finished chewing it before talking again.

"So what's your name?"

_"Dipper."_

"And you are...?"

_"Twelve years old. We were supposed to be thirteen at the end of summer."_

"I was talking about species." He said, leaving the "we" part for later.

_"Human."_

"I'm aware of that much. But are you a ghost or some sort of demon?"

_"We're human."_

"Yes but..."

He trailed off as the eyes rested upon him. Beneath the wear and tiredness, there was a cold, furious intensity. He needed to be more delicate then, more tasteful. Stanford was used to dealing with elderly ghosts. They were much more placid, and accepting of their deaths in most cases. But the boy must have been new to his situation, perhaps still in denial over it. There was nothing to gain from pushing. Not if they wanted to sort out the living situation with their home.

_"Where are my parents?"_

"Were they the last ones who uh, owned you?"

_"And the only."_

"The only? Oh, that's not common. Uh, so, you're uh-"

_"My parents."_

The couple, from the night before...

A sudden, sinking sensation began inside of him. His stomach plummed, and twisted in disgusting slimy knots. He knew that he was jumping to conclusions, and that not all dead people were the same, but Stanford could not help but infer. It was just too easy for him to fill in the blanks with what he knew so far, even if he dearly hoped that it was wrong, for the child's sake. Stanford did not quite know how he mustered up the gall to answer the question especially with how the boy was staring at him like that. Yet he did, he somehow managed to reply to him;

"They... Dropped you off here."

_"Where is here?"_

"Were you not conscious during the time?"

_"It's easier to stay strong when the mirrors are together."_

"How fascinating! You must be very powerful if such restrictions were place upon-"

_"Where is here?"_ He repeated, louder this time.

"We're well..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "A mixture of things. My brother runs a funeral home for dead people. Er, by that I mean dead people who are dissatisfied with their original funerals can have one here. I rent out this place to ghosts and demons as well. We help those that are attached to objects either break free, or move on. Quite a few choose to stick around here instead of moving on to the afterlife. Or, they stay if they're... Well, if they're dangerous to society and aren't interested in reform I have to..."

The boy folded his arms over his chest.

_"What's keeping us from leaving?"_

"There's a barrier around the house. And then a second one that goes on for about four miles in all directions. Then the town, state, and country. We just have different levels depending upon how dangerous everyone is at first. Usually most visitors are able to roam across the planet within two or so weeks. Others choose to move beyond and-"

_"You're a prison."_ He interrupted. _"Our **parents** sent us to a **prison."**_

"Try not to think of it as that. We're merely keeping others out of harm's way, and rehabilitating-"

_"You're a prison!"_ He repeated. The boy cackled, and he grabbed his head. _"Our parents sent us to prison! Our own parents! They said they weren't going to give up on us! They said-!"_

"I'm sorry that your parents would-"

_"I don't want your apologies!"_

The mirror was torn out of his hands by a violent force and thrown to the ground. It shattered, and bits of mirror flew everywhere. Stanford only caught a passing glance of the boy as he ran out of the room. There were thousands of him, sliding across the shards of mirror, all before he vanished from sight.

Stanford sighed, and then went to get the dust pan. The worst kinds of ghosts were the ones with tragic stories behind them. He hated seeing the child get so upset like that. He hated even more that his inference had been right. Getting to know their new tenant was going to be a challenge.

* * *

The twins bumped into each other. Stanford was leaving the kitchen, and Stanley had just gotten out of the shower and dressed himself. Both kept their eyes downcast, slightly embarrassed by what they had succeeded to do. Stanford was on his way to shower (Stanley said that he had to take one regularly, and today was that required day.) and Stanley was on his way to get himself some breakfast before the next funeral procession came around their house. Both twins knew they had something to say to the other before they went about their days, just in case a vengeful ghost-demon attempted to attack the other while they were at work.

"Stanford, I may have angered our latest tenant. Just now." "Stanley, I might have upset our new occupant. Right now."

"What? You met her?" "What, you met him?"

"Jinx! Double jinx! Triple jinx! Quadruple jinx! Oh, alright, you got me."

Having spoken simultaneously thrice, they stopped, suspiciously eyeing the other. They both opened their mouths to speak again, but froze when they saw the other. Then they turned to sign language in union. But the moment they both rose their hands, they were forced to cease, not wanting to speak over the other. Eventually, it was Stanford who decided to speak first, but not before he made sure that his brother did not have anything to add.

"How could you scare away the new _ghost_ just now when I was just talking to _him?"_

"What I'd like to know is how you could upset the new _demon_ just now when I was talking to _her?!"_

"Alright, we clearly have some sort of _ghostly_ deception going on here." Stanford said. "Because the new _ghost_ is a young _boy-"_

"Actually, the new _demon_ is a young _girl_ named M-"

"Trickery then." He cut in, before they could get into a yes no argument. "The spirit with ghost and demon-like qualities must enjoy taking on different forms."

That would certainly explain the boy's resemblance to both of them when they were younger. Perhaps they liked taking on different forms to get an emotional response out of people.

"And they can appear in two places at the same time?" Stanley skeptically asked.

"That I can't explain. But I am impressed by our ability to mess up relations with them twice, at the same time."

_"Yeeeah,_ you might want to avoid showering." Stanley said. "The ghost may have used up all the hot water for the pig."

"Oh yes, I had forgotten we have one of those now. We'd better buy some food for it today." Stanford replied. "And you should probably steer clear of the kitchen if you're going in there barefoot. At least until I clean up the smaller shards of mirror."

Stanley tried to step around his brother, but Stanford did the same. There was another odd moment of mirroring each other, as they attempted to walk past the other. After a few failed tries, Stanford crossed his pointer and index finger, and gestured to the right, indicating that he was going to walk that way. However, Stanley interpreted this the wrong way, and also stepped to the right, thinking that Stanford was telling him where to go. There was another frustrating moment of recovering from the pain in their foreheads.

"I go right, you go left." He said aloud.

"Right, I'll go left, while you go right."

"No, er, yes, uh..."

They figured it out eventually, but not before they had hit their heads for a second time.


	3. Stealing Stanley's Sandwiches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Chapter Title: Stanford Pines is Weirdly Optimistic After Making Two New Enemies

The heavy red curtains of the parlour had been drawn. No light could pierce through them, cloaking the room in darkness. Stanley lit candles as he circled around, checking all of the arrangements. Stanford had taken his lighter, as he needed to have candles as well, leaving him with a box of uncooperative matches. Every time he would strike the head of one, it only lived long enough for him to light one of the candles.

It was a frustrating process that made him want to swear at the top of his lungs. The room was filled with them. The plain, scentless candles rested on every surface, in a variety of different candlesticks. They ranged from modern ceramic to old-fashioned brass ones. The candles were all uniform however. They were pearly-white lines within the pitch-black, reflecting the light that came from the room's entrance.

Several different holders of incense burned in the room. They had a heavy, sweet smell to them, it tickled one's nose and caused their eyes to water. But Stanley had grown immune to their strength, and went about his set-up relatively unbothered by the fumes. There were folding chairs placed in rows, a single aisle parting between them. At the end of the aisle, there was a pedestal. Behind this pedestal, there was a coffin. Empty of course, it was the same standard one they used for every funeral. But this time, there were pots of flowers, and pictures of deceased resting upon the coffin.

The parlour was by far the fanciest room in their house. That was not saying much, considering that the rest of the place looked like, and essentially was, a haunted house. The floor was all carpeted here. It was plush, and soft, it absorbed the sound of Stanley's footsteps. There were multiple coffee tables pushed up against the walls. They were a mismatched assortment of tables, bought from countless yard sales. Many of them could have passed for antiques, seeing how old they were. The tables often had detailed edging and legs, with intricate carvings within the different shades of wood.

On top of the tables, there were more vases, filled with flowers. There were also many decorations too. Odds and ends they had picked up over the years. Paperweights, sea shells, jars of strangely coloured sand, lamps (they were never plugged in however), figurines of animals, and other oddities. They had several landscape paintings on the walls. They were of the local scenery. Stanford had painted them, and so the pallets matched the darker colours of the room. It gave the place a more personal touch. Even if that personal touch made it appear as if an elderly woman had decorated the room for them.

Finally, all the candles in the room had been lit. Stanley checked his appearance in the nearest mirror. The candles provided him with enough light to see, and his eyes had become adjusted to the darkness. He combed his fingers through his grey hair, and straightened his tie. Then he smiled, flashing his teeth at his reflection. Now they were all ready to go. He returned to the podium, and put his cue cards in place. There was a small storage space beneath the top of it. Here, there were a few different funeral-related things being stored. But what he needed was the bell. It was made out of frosted glass, and there were little diamond shapes chipped into the sides. He rung it three times, and then waited for a response.

Almost immediately, a bluish shine stared to fill the room. The inexplicable light came from different sources. Things became intensely bright, but quickly died down to a pale glow. Ghosts were filing into the room. Some merely making themselves visible in the chairs, while others came through the entrance. A quick glance towards one of the mirrors told him that the seats were all taken, even if it didn't appear to be so. Some types of ghosts were permanently invisible, that was just the way things worked. The parlour had quickly filled to maximum capacity. Even then, there were still some stragglers attempting to watch from the hall. However, he had to keep the door closed, dead person's orders.

The ghosts quietly murmured amongst themselves. They were all wondering what the funeral would be like this time around. Stanley let them discuss for a moment. Then, he cleared his throat, and cracked his knuckles. This was a large function, where he'd have to sign and speak at the same time, so all could understand what he was saying.

"Dearly beloved-" He hugged his arms to his chest, and then pressed his crossed hands against his heart. "I have gathered you all here for a reason. We are gathered here today, TO FIND OUT WHO MURDERED MRS. CRAWFORD!"

A gasp spread out through the room, and the spectators whispered amongst themselves.

"Yes, murdered! With this-" Stanley pulled the fake murder weapon out from behind the podium. "Very sword!"

More stirring, as they took in the sword covered in ketchup.

"Thus, I have decided, to summon, THE GHOST OF MRS. CRAWFORD!"

Right on cue, the woman became visible. She was sitting on top of the coffin, swinging her legs back and forth with a wide grin upon her face. She waved at her friends in the crowd, and they eagerly gave her thumbs up in response. Stanley did his best to maintain a serious expression. This was supposed to be a murder-mystery after all. Even if he couldn't quite take the idea completely seriously either.

"Now, we just need to whittle down the suspects. Who here doesn't have an alibi?"

Everyone in the room raised their hands.

This was going to be one long funeral.

* * *

Stanford was shrouded within the darkness of his work room. It was on the third basement level of their house. Normally, this space was where the ghosts on residence went when daytime came along. Others came to their house to visit as well, the basement was a hub for spirit activity. There was no sunlight there, just the faint glowing of the ones he had installed at irregular intervals. Even then, they were rarely switched on. This was one of those common times, where the lights were all off, and he sat at his desk. There was a glass window and a door separating his desk area and the entrance from the large, open space that followed.

It was here that the ghosts had filled it with furniture. Chairs to sit on, tables to lean against, and even a bar, which had been set up in the far right corner. They never had any minors, at least up until now. Stanford vacantly made a mental note to make sure their new tenant didn't go near the bar.

The ghosts loved to rearrange the space in their spare time. They were always finding new furniture and dragging it down to the basement. But if it kept the tenants happy, then he had no problem with it. Most of the regulars were upstairs at this time, a change, considering that it was daylight. They were watching the funeral that his brother was putting on. From what he had heard on the ghostly grapevine, it was going to be murder-mystery themed. Stanford wondered how Stanley planned to pull that idea off. He would have liked to have seen, but he was booked with his own job at the moment.

At the request of Dr. Houston, he was going to perform a séance, so they could communicate with his girlfriend from the afterlife. The man had a long-distance relationship with the mysterious after-lifer, ever since a failed attempt to communicate with his lawyer wound up with her on the line instead. Stanford preferred that the ghosts did it with supervision, after the last time a ghost-hating demon had been summoned by accident. Well, it was actually more like Stanley had told him he had to supervise the ghosts when they talked to someone from the afterlife.

Upon the desk and the floor around them, there was a ring of white candles. The flickering orange flames burned bright. There were two lines of salt around the candles. One ring on the outside, another on the inside. This too was a precaution Stanley wanted him to take. Stanford didn't see why he should, after all, he had only let a few demons loose by accident in the past. But, he still tried to keep up some safety measures, if not for his brother's peace of mind.

Yet, despite that, Stanford could not help but wonder if he had forgotten something. As a matter of fact, he had. The anti-possession headdress (Read, tin foil hat.) Was nowhere to be seen on his head. Stanford didn't know about this however. He had also forgotten the talismans, the magtagma, and flat-out skipped bothering to refill the spray bottle with holy water. He was a professional after all, he could handle the summoning if something went wrong!

_"Are you ready Dr. Houston?"_

Dr. Houston was one of those cases where the ghost could not speak on the mortal plane. The man nodded, and signed his response back.

_"Good."_ He said. _"Now I'll just say the standard afterlife-opening chant..."_

As could be expected when Stanford was in charge and made safety mostly optional, something went wrong. A moment too soon, all of the candles had been snuffed out. An unnatural gale swept through the room, stirring up the lines of salt and overturning the candle sticks. Hot wax spilled all over the table, and he could feel the searing substance against his hands.

Dr. Houston fought to hold on to the ouija board. The fight was pointless, as the fearsome force pulled it from him. Instantly, it stared to spell things out to them. Instead of trying to control the situation, Stanford grabbed a pad of paper, and he started to write down the message so they could understand what was going on.

I HOPE THAT YOU GO TO JAIL FOR THIS

THEN YOU WILL KNOW WHAT WE FEEL LIKE

ALSO YOU ARE A JERK

DIE

SORRY THAT WAS MEAN

I DIDN'T MEAN TO WRITE THAT

IT WASN'T ME

As Stanford looked over these messages, he sighed, and rolled his eyes. Stanford started to peel the drying wax off his hands, and he gave an apologetic look at the ghost.

"Dipper, could you _not_ interfere with my work please?"

ONLY IF YOU LET US LEAVE

"So long as you continue to plan revenge against those who brought you here, I can't. I won't let innocent people get hurt."

THEY AREN'T INNOCENT

_"We can try again later."_ He said, focusing back on Dr. Houston. _"Does Saturday evening work?"_

He nodded, and then faded away, leaving him to clean up the mess that had been made of the place. The wax had quickly hardened across the table. He started to pull it off the surface, scraping it into a messy, white pile. Greasy streaks still remained upon it however. There was still all the wax and salt on the floor to tidy. One large, white smear of a mess. Perhaps he should just leave that for later.

Stanford stooped over to pick up the candlesticks. Naturally, when he placed them upon his desk, they were overturned again. This time, candles were snapped in half, like crayons. They started to hover around the room, held up by invisible hands. The candles dragged across the walls, scrawling out angry words and drawing unflattering pictures of himself. Rather than being intimidated by the display, Stanford went about his business as usual.

If Dipper was going to be an uncooperative child, then he could. It was nothing new, considering the ghosts that he had put up with in the past. The child would have to do a great deal more than that to frighten him. Despite this, Stanford could not help but jump in surprise when he saw the angry faces drawn on the wall. They were all glaring at him with intense eyes. The shining wax glimmered oddly in the depths of the basement. How was he supposed to get it off the bricks? Actually, the drawings were rather nice. The boy seemed to have some talent with those candlesticks.

"Well, you keep drawing. Perhaps expressing your feelings will help you calm down." Stanford said. "In the meantime I've got other things to be doing."

With that settled, he headed back upstairs. Now seemed like a good time for a lunch break in his books. The ghostly force followed behind him, protesting all the way to the ground floor, and to the kitchen. Their new pet pig (his name was Waddles apparently) was sitting in a patch of sunlight, napping. Stanford took care not to disturb the animal, and then he started to search through the fridge for something.

Then, it occurred to him that Stanley was running a funeral that day. A funeral meant food that ghosts never ate but they supplied anyway. Sandwiches, free (it was technically free, because it was his brother's job) coffee, and little desserts! His sweet tooth ached at the thought of the bite-sized cakes and brownies they bought from the store. He was never allowed to eat them, he always had to take the leftovers from whatever funeral had happened. A lot of the time, that was nothing. The ghosts around here liked to pretend that they could eat at funerals. It resulted in a great deal of food getting wasted, as it wound up on the floor.

Why let it all go to waste when he was right here, and perfectly hungry? With this new, better lunch plan in mind, he headed towards the parlour Dipper was scraping the candles against the walls now, tearing down picture frames and mirrors as he went. By the time they reached the parlour, he had run out of candles, they were mere stubs now.

"Would you like to come in and see the funeral?" He asked.

_"NO!"_

The disembodied voice practically roared an answer back at him, causing his ears to ring and his head to spin. But Stanford shook it off, naturally having experienced worse in his line of work. Despite the loudness of the negative response, Stanford still got the feeling that it was only inside of his mind. To him, it seemed as if no one would be able to hear the voice but himself, because it was in his head, and not the real world.

"It's murder-mystery themed!" He temptingly added.

_"What kind of a weirdo wants a themed funeral?"_

"Mrs. Crawford does. Now are there any sandwiches in particular that you'd like me to get for you? Usually we get egg salad, tuna, ham and cheese, and peanut butter and jelly. The tuna's usually the first to go, but I can assure you that there will be peanut butter and jelly."

_"We can't eat anymore." "I'll have that."_

The voices had spoken at exactly the same moment. One was distinctly more feminine than the one he had come to associate with Dipper.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

_"Yes! Get the PB and J!"_

"Of course... Mabel I presume?"

_"Yup! Get me a sandwich!"_

_"Don't get her a sandwich."_ Dipper replied.

_"Get me one! Please!"_

_"Mabel these guys are holding us prisoner, don't ask them for food and then say please!"_

_"Manners are important Dip-Dop, even if these guys are total jerks."_

Was the child having conversations with themselves now? How strange. Stanford decided to play along with it, he didn't want to set them off any more than he already had. It was lucky enough to have them talking to him again, even after their not-so cheerful first encounter. He could work on figuring out a moving on diagnosis later. Right now, lunch was calling him.

So, he slowly opened the door, and slipped inside of the parlour It was even darker in here than it was in the hallway. Stanford had to stand, with his back to the door. He waited for his eyes to adjust before he did so much as move. Stanford could make out the outlines of the ghosts in the room first, for they were lighter. Then came his brother, and the furniture. Stanford took care to avoid running into any of the tables, he didn't want to knock over the candles, or knock over a vase.

It appeared that the funeral was going rather well. Stanley was too busy drawing a chalk outline around Mrs. Crawford to pay attention to him making his way to the refreshment area. Several serving plates of store-bought sandwiches rested upon the tables. They were sliced into triangles, the optimal shape for sandwich consumption. The crusts had been cut off, and they were stacked upon each other in neat piles. The sides were garnished with rosy-red cherry tomatoes and cucumber slices. These always went untouched by the end of it all, despite the ghosts' enjoyment for "eating." There were paper plates on the next table. He grabbed one, and then picked up the desired sandwiches.

Stanford was able to sneak out of the room, unnoticed by the group, who were analyzing the positioning of the chalk outline. Stanley had pulled out a pipe (from where, he did not know) and he would nod along, making muffled confirming noises with it clamped between his teeth. Even though his words were next to impossible to understand, Stanford could have sworn that Stanley was repeating "elementary my dear cadaver" as the ghosts speculated.

Once he was away from the proceedings, he was able to hand the sandwich Mabel had asked for to the girl.

_**"Oooh!** No crusts!"_ The sandwich circled around him. _"I just wish I could eat this..."_

Suddenly, it was thrown back at him. He was hit straight in the forehead. With a sigh of disgust, he caught the sandwich as it fell. Only, the other plate, with his lunch on it, was smacked out of his hands as well. He could feel the stinging slap against his wrist, and winced. Then he wiped off the lingering jelly with his sleeve.

_"Dipper!"_

_"You can't just accept food from the enemy!"_

_"Yes I can!"_

_"At least make him feel bad about it! We're being held here against our will, remember that part?"_

_**"Yeeeah,** what's that all about?"_ Just then, Mabel became visible. She looked a great deal like her brother. They could have been twins! The girl was still circling around him. Her hair trailed after her, it seemed to move at its own pace. The long locks were wrapping around his neck as she went, and he suddenly became aware of the squeezing sensation in his throat. A stinging, cold feeling traced around his skin. A burning followed, like a million individual needles prickling against him. _"How come we can't leave?"_

"We just don't want you chasing after people and scaring them to death." He explained, unravelling her hair. "We've been over this before."

_"I didn't know that there was a wall, and I ran straight into it. I had to find out from Dipper!"_ Blood started to drip from her nose, as if she had just run into something face-first. Drops of blood landed on him, and he could feel his skin start to crawl. He attempted to move away from the streams of scarlet, but the hair that he was tangled around kept him more or less in place. _"It really hurt."_

"I'm sorry Mabel, but so long as you're dangerous, you have to remain on premises. It's the rule."

_"Well that's a dumb rule!"_ She yelled. The girl stopped bleeding and floating around him. Now, she was glaring at him with her hands on her hips. _"We want to go home! I wanna' see my room, and all my sweaters, and my parents!"_

"I truly am sorry." He repeated. "But it's part of my job to keep people safe. I can't simply-"

_"Oh yeah?! Well from now on, my job is going to be making your life so horrible, that you'll let us go! Right Dipper?"_

A second figure appeared, right next to Mabel. It was a boy, the boy, Dipper. They were in the same place, at the same time. Suddenly, understanding struck Stanford. That explained the strange use of pronouns from the children, and their parents. It also explained the confusion that he and Stanley had gone through before.

Of course, siblings! Somehow that was the last conclusion he would have come to. When it came to the world of ghosts, one with multiple forms was more expected than twins. Come to think of it, the two mirrors should have been a dead give-away as well. Dipper had the pine tree hat, while his sister was wearing a matching shooting star on her sweater. They went together perfectly with the mirror designs.

_"I second that motion."_

"You're siblings!"

_"How did you not notice that?"_ Mabel asked. _"It_ _was kinda' obvious."_

"We don't get siblings around here that often." He explained. "So are you twins?"

_"I mean, we are twins."_ Mabel started. _"But that doesn't matter. We just vowed to ruin your life until you let us leave!"_

"Bah, I've had worse threats than that, and you're both new to the world of ghosts or demons or whatever you are." He dismissed. "Besides, my brother and I are fraternal twins too! What are the odds?"

_"Dude, we just swore revenge against you and the other guy, and that's what you're concerned about?"_

"Which one of you is the older twin? What's your favourite identity prank to date?"

Dipper smacked his forehead.

_"We're not even going to answer that."_

_"Yeesh, get your priorities checked! Haunting are pretty high up on the things-you-should-probably-want-to-avoid scale. AlsoI'mthealphatwin."_

_"By five minutes! Er, come on Mabel, let's go plan revenge."_

Mabel made a face and stuck out her tongue. Dipper did as well, and they both fazed through the wall. Stanford, forgetting that he was not a ghost, accidentally ran into the wall in an attempt to follow them. Luckily, he only hurt his nose, and not his glasses. But in that moment, a sharp pain struck his nose, and he could smell blood. Knowing what was coming next, he pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head up slightly.

"Wait! You didn't answer my questions!"

Laughter was his response, they were teasing him about running into the wall and bloodying his nose.

"Alright, we can talk later. I have to handle this-" He gestured to his nose."-first."

Thus, he left the hall, and went off to find something to staunch the flow of blood. Despite the fact that he had gotten it by running into a wall, he could not bring himself to be embarrassed. At least, not when he had made some progress with their new visitors. He couldn't wait to tell Stanley. His brother would be thrilled. They could share all of their horrible twin jokes they had been saving up over the years! And maybe they could swap impersonation tactics with the children.

This was going to be great!


	4. Grave-Digging Doubts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, it's been a while, hasn't it? I apologize for the late update, my dog recently passed away, and I've been taking it hard. He was seventeen, and pretty much a sibling in everything but species, and blood. The rest of my family, particularly my mum, haven't been feeling as great either. I'm still not quite back to normal, and I've been having trouble getting used to a no-dog life. Some days I'm fine, and other days, not as much. I feel normal when I'm not at home, but the moment I open the front door and don't find someone sleeping behind it just to trip me up, I get reminded of it. A lot of things remind me of him, so it hasn't been that easy. 
> 
> I've moved on from feeling terrible at least. Now it's just more numb. I'm still adjusting, it will take some time. As like I said before, Pepper was like a sibling to me, and he was going to be seventeen years old. It doesn't help that I've had one uncle pass away recently, and one on the other side of the family is currently in the hospital. So, writing a story about DEATH is a little bit... Challenging for me right now. 
> 
> My emotions want to take it to full-on dark angst-y town, but what I really want is family fluff with Ford crashing into things every chapter and Stan coming up with creative funeral themes. And on top of that, I'm heading straight towards exam season, and that includes my figure skating tests. I really want to get back to normal, but it may take me some time. Again, I apologize for being so late with this update, and I hope to avoid this kind of thing in the future.
> 
> Alternate Chapter Title: Now is Probably not the Time for Family Bonding Because you don't even Know you're Related yet
> 
> Read, review, and enjoy!

Stanford was sitting at the kitchen table, checking over the necessary materials in his backpack. He had the repellents for any dangerous nocturnal monsters, and his curse-breaking notes, should they encounter any sort of ancient pox that would cause ill effects on them. His magatama was in working condition, he had the paleontology kit, and both their flashlights had been checked, and were in working order.

Eyes still watering, he set down the flashlight, and made a mental note to not shine it in his eyes to see if it was working properly. Stanley snorted, not bothering to hide his amusement. He was in charge of sharpening their spades and shovels. They doubled as potentially lethal weapons. Granted they already could cause blunt force trauma, but the additional edge of being able to stab something with the tools was useful as well. He placed both hands in front of himself, and then turned them out towards Stanley.

_"Finished?"_

With a final swipe of the whetstone, his brother nodded. Everything appeared to be in working order. They had their materials together, they were actually properly dressed for the weather and coming task, and they only had to refill the travel mugs of coffee three times before the "vengeful" ghost- (or perhaps they were demons, Stanford hadn't gotten the time to clear that with them yet) twins gave up.

They had been trying to disrupt their way of life, but it wasn't that successful. They were still new to the whole "ruining people's life" idea. He suspected they were a little too soft to go through with anything serious to begin with, so there was not much to worry about every time they attempted to bother them. It got to Stanley more than it did to him, but he still found it funny that they were so inexperienced in trying to scare them.

Mabel had given up after the third try to knock over the coffee, she had left to find her pig. Dipper was walking across the kitchen counter. At first he had done it to get their attention and make them angry (which obviously did not happen) but now he appeared to be in deep thought. He would occasionally step off the counter without realizing it. Some of the time, he would catch himself, remembering that he could float. The rest of the time, he would fall to the ground, forgetting that gravity no longer applied to him.

_"Where are you going?"_

The boy had stopped his pacing around the room, and was looking at them.

"Oh, we're just heading out to dig up a few graves."

_"What?!"_

"Every Friday's pay-day for us."

Apparently that was not the explanation he was hoping for, because he only appeared to be even more confused. Stanley decided to enlighten him.

"Funerals don't come cheap kid. And dead people don't have money. But their cadavers do. They're buried with something valuable, rings and jewelry and stuff, that we can sell. Plus there's always a black market. If the body isn't fresh, there's the dark market. It's like the black market but with more wizards and voodoo."

_"You can't just go digging up people's graves!"_

"Wanna' bet?"

Seeing the coming yes-no argument from a mile away, Stanford decided to intervene.

"I'm sure if you see the process yourself you'll feel a lot less strongly about this! Plus, it's a good way to cope with your own uh- are you a ghost?"

_"I'm a human."_

"Yes but are you-" He decided to drop it was he was given a near murderous glare. "Nevermind. But I still think you should go out and at least get some fresh air."

_"I thought there was a **barrier** around the house, depending upon how **dangerous** we all were."_

"There is! But you and your sister can leave the premises now! Right up until the town border!"

His mixture of disgust and anger turned to confusion at this. He closed his mouth, and recoiled slightly.

_"W-what? Why?"_

"For good behavior of course! I'm a man of my word you know! Stanley not so much, but he's a con man of his words. Get it? Con-"

His wonderful joke went unappreciated by Dipper.

_"We haven't been good! Mabel knocked over your coffee! I'm walking on the counter! I wrote on the walls and swapped the salt with sugar and left the milk in the sun before putting it back in the fridge!"_

The last two were lies, although he didn't point this out to the boy. There were locks on the fridge and cupboards to prevent the ghosts from trying to "eat" their food, or make a mess with it. He would let him have his fun, thinking that he had somehow managed to fool him.

"Do you want to go out or not?" Stanley asked.

_"I'm not going grave-robbing!"_

"Think of it as an adventure! Aren't you tired of sticking around the house all day, _moping?"_

"Well-"

Stanford shoved a spade and the backpack of supplies into the boy's open arms. His eyes widened in shock, and he stumbled over his own feet at he attempted to catch his balance. With a little help, he was able to put on the backpack. It was clearly the only thing preventing him from floating away, and yet, he did not try to phase through it either. Stanford didn't dwell on that. He was simply glad that they would be able to get a little cooperation happening between all of them. Stanley and Dipper were slightly less than enthusiastic than he was. In fact, Stanley appeared a little skeptical of this whole idea. This thought was proven when Stanley asked;

"So what are you doing while we're gone then?"

"Groceries."

"It's not dark enough for groceries."

"Well I thought we could support the local gnome economy by-"

"They're scammin' ya' Ford! It isn't worth it! Dumb things always-"

_"Did you say gnomes?"_

"Dipper, you're a ghost- demon- uh-" Stanford regained his bearings again. "You're clearly not quite human. That can't be any more shocking."

_"Can I see gnomes instead of grave-robbing?"_

"No."

_"What? Why not?"_

"Because Ford is _not_ buying our groceries from those tiny little creeps. Everything is miniature-sized. And they bake fairy dust or whatever that glittery stuff is into their bread."

_"Did I hear glitter in everyday food products?"_

Mabel's head appeared, poking through the ceiling. Stanford pushed away the girl's hair from where it dangled by his face, and looked up at her.

"It's actually pixie _sparkles,_ fairy _dust_ will knock you out if you so much as look at it wrong. But yes, it is a common ingredient in much of the local supernatural cuisine. Creatures of all kinds used to just eat them until I introduced the concept of not eating sentient beings for nutrition."

_**"Whaaat?** I'm going grocery shopping with this guy!"_

_"Mabel! I already called it!"_

"I think you're all forgetting something." Stanley interrupted. _"Ford_ doesn't have any _money,_ even if I would let that knucklehead go shopping for food in the _woods,_ because we still need to go grave-robbing!"

_"I thought you said it wasn't grave-robbing."_

"It isn't. But I figured while we're there we could tear up a few others on the side. Make some extra profit."

"Then it's settled! A group grave-yard expedition!"

Two unenthusiastic cries of "hooray" was his response.

This was how they all wound up in the graveyard, unwillingly more than anything. The rain that had once persistently plummeted upon the town had vanished, leaving clear skies and beads of water in the long grass. The cemetery was a hilly place, the grass was well-kept for the most part. But as the graves extended further back along the property, the dates of the graves grew older. The headstones, unlike their predecessors, were not polished to their point where they gleamed. They were rough slabs of stone, crumbling around the edges, and greening with moss in places. There were no flowers, real or artificial, for these graves. Likely anyone who would have come to visit was long dead themselves.

With so few visitors to the further parts of the graveyard, the grass was not maintained. As one climbed up yet another slope, slick with water and mud from the showers earlier, it was easy to lose balance. There were smaller headstones that lay flat on the ground on some sections of the hills. There were other headstones, cracked in half years ago, that lay, scattered beneath the long, tangled grass.

The men knew the graveyard like the back of their hands by now. they could seamlessly step over any hidden headstone in their way, without so much as looking at the ground. The other twins were not bothered by it either, seeing as they could simply pass through whatever decided to get in their way. A winding path traced through the hills, passing by dated stones, their statue monuments, and even a few family crypts, which easily dated back to the turn of the century.

The summer storm had passed, and so the sky was devoid of clouds, making it easier to see. Stars gleamed against the ever-darkening horizon, and the moon hung above them. Beams of light were scattered everywhere, and once one's eyes adjusted, it was really not that difficult to see. The still-wet grass twinkled with the stars, as if each drop of water had a moon of its own, radiating light from them.

They trudged through the graveyard in relative silence. The grass swished beneath their feet, and crickets chirped beneath them, no one felt the need to talk above the quiet night sounds. Stanley was the only person out of the four who moved with any enthusiasm. He swatted at the grass with his sharpened shovel, cleaving the grass neatly in half has he lead the way to the designated grave.

Stanford was fiddling with the bug spray (the moth-men had been particularly vicious after hibernation this year, and several mosquitos had carried cattle off from what he had heard.) he was trying to discern whether or not it was possible for the twins, with their dubious corporeality, to actually be affected by the spray, or if it would come off if they ceased to be solid. It didn't take much for him to be in a conundrum, that was for certain. The kids didn't seem to thrilled on helping him figure it out, either. But Stanley supposed that was about as good as a reaction they could expect, seeing as they had some sort of revenge issues that needed to be sorted out.

From what he knew, they hadn't done much to try to ruin his life so far. Maybe the pig had done something? Stanley couldn't quite recall, so he figured that it didn't really matter. After all, what was the worst a fifteen-pound pig could do? Even if it did belong to that creepy kid? Stanley wasn't too crazy about children to begin with. Being a child was terrible, crazy women trying to burden you down with a kid was terrible, and the fact that they cost a lot of money, was also trouble.

Ghost-demon, whatever those two kids were, didn't rank any higher in his books, even if they weren't the strings attached to some weirdo's plan to marry him. Ghost kids were always the creepiest. They always wanted you to "play" games with them, and they forced you to sit through their "dark" renditions of nursery rhymes. They always seemed to have the saddest stories to justify what they were doing as well.

Then again, he supposed that most of them would, seeing as they were children, they had died young. That still didn't mean he wasn't sick of sob-stories. Even though Stanley would never admit it out loud, and he could barely accept the fact in his head, he didn't like hearing what the kids had to say, because their stories were so sad. They made him sad. They were tragic, and sometimes even relatable. Sure Filbrick had never been pretty awful as far as things went, but at least he hadn't resorted to murder to get rid of an unwanted child. The unwanted child, also known as him.

_**THWACK!** _

Without realizing it, he had hit a grave-marker with his shovel. His swing sliced it neatly in half. Stanley and Stanford braced themselves for the potential ghost that would appear, angry that they had knocked over their stone. No one arrived to yell at them, but he did get a dirty look from the kids. They were still not quite on board with the whole grave-robbing adventure. Mabel bent over to pick up the halved gravestone. She couldn't lift it on her own though, it was too heavy, and the kids weren't the greatest at using their ghostly powers. Stanford grabbed it for her. But instead of putting it back in place, he looked at the name carved on top.

"Ah, here we are! This one's hers!"

Stanley shimmied out of the backpack he was carrying, Dipper needed help with his own. Once relieved of it, he started to float, as if the weight had been preventing him from doing so the entire time. Now that they had found the place, they started to clear the grass around the area. With several well-placed swipes of their spades, they were able to halve the tall grass, and then quarter it. By the time they were through, there was a rough, rectangular section in the area, outlining where a body was most likely buried.

This grave was an older one, the occupant had died some time ago. Yet there were older still, out beyond the rolling hills, the amount of graves seemed nearly endless, despite the fact that the forest bordered them on two sides. Typically, the older the grave, the closer to the surface they were buried. The ground was difficult to dig when it was wet. The mud made it difficult to lift, as it wanted to stick together. It was also difficult to get a grip on the ground as they got deeper.

Eventually, Stanford had to pitch away whatever soil Stanley dug up, so they would have more room for dirt. The twins sat down on the edge of the hill during this time, their backs deliberately turned away from the sight. They were talking, he could tell, because their lips moved, but no sound came out of them. It was an improvement from bleeding and revenge, that was for certain. Stanford's attempts to befriend them went unheard, they were clearly giving him the cold shoulder, but that didn't stop him from trying.

"Have you ever tried swapping places to see who you could fool?"

_"Um, I'm not sure if you noticed, but we're not exactly-"_ He pointed to his sister's skirt. _"Identical."_

"So what? We're fraternal as well, not even completely alike in appearances!"

_"Yeah but-"_

_"He just doesn't want to admit to wearing a skirt."_ Mabel chimed in.

**_"Mabel!"_ **

Well, maybe they weren't quite giving Stanford the cold shoulder. More like they were trying to. And failing miserably at it. Jeeze they were bad at this whole "getting revenge so we can leave and then get even more revenge" plan. Even worse than most of the angered spirits they got around this place. He tapped his brother with the shovel, he had stopped digging so that he could talk with the children. Stanford didn't act like he had acknowledged it, but he did start to pitch more dirt down the side of the hill, where a new pile was forming.

"What? That's nothing!" He said, between tosses of his shovel. "Have you ever tried not wearing glasses when your own prescription is extra-strong? I couldn't see anything!"

_"At least you weren't blinded by one of your sister's hidden glitter pockets! I didn't even know where it came from until I blinded myself!"_

_"For the last time Dipper, it's magic!"_

From somewhere (Stanley was not quite sure how the girl had done this even before she was a ghost) she pulled out two fistfuls of glitter. They were tossed in the sky.

_"See? **Maaagiiic!"**_

"Incredible! Did you sew hidden pockets inside of your sleeves? Or was that a sleight of hand?"

**_"Weeell-"_ **

As the night went on, it grew colder, and the dew started to settle on things. Even on the children, who seemed content to sit in the tall grass. It nearly reached to their shoulders as they sat on the hill. They were barely visible, except for their heads, which were a strange silvery-white.

They only had to dig about four feet before his shovel hit something solid. The moment this happened, his digging grew more frantic. their next pay was on the way! They cleared the surface over the coffin, and then started to attack some of the side walls they had made with the shovels. Now, there was a small space, with just enough room for one person to stand without getting in the way of the coffin as they opened it.

Now that they had reached this point, the kids started to take interest in what they were doing. They curiously peered over the edge of the hole, and waited for him to open the coffin. Stanley pulled off his digging gloves, which were thoroughly soaked with water at this point.

"Heist gloves."

They were tossed down to him, and he put them on.

"Crowbar. Preferably a..." He tapped on the coffin, and then felt around the edges. "Double claw. No wait, a mallet first, and an alan key."

Within a few moments, he had loosened the lid enough for his fingers to fit underneath. From there, he jammed in the crowbar, and started to heave.

_"W-wait!"_

He looked back at the children.

"What?"

_"Shouldn't you uh... Be worried about the decomposing body harming you? Like, the gases or something?"_

_"Yeah! What about parasites that could latch on to you?"_

"Hazmat suits aren't the greatest for this sorta' job." He gruffly said.

"Stanley and I are perfectly aware of what we are doing! We make safety one of our top concerns!"

"Right after money and not getting arrested by the cops." Stanley helpfully added. "It's pretty much number one!"

With a whoosh of air, he opened the coffin. The twins both squeaked, and looked away. Stanley didn't really see what there was to cringe about. It was just a body, one that had been quite nicely embalmed in fact. He supposed it was a shame exposure would ruin the body. But then again, the most visible embalming was always the face and the hands, the things that people could see. She was probably a mess under the dress she was wearing.

Stanley slipped the two rings that rested upon her finger. One a wedding band, and the other an Irish claddagh. There was a nice pair of crystal earrings, and a necklace to complete the entire get-up. He took those as well, figuring that would be enough to cover the costs of the funeral, as well as the damage caused when the "mystery" part of "murder mystery" got too intense.

_"She... She looks like she's just sleeping."_ A timid voice said.

"That's embalming for ya'! It does wonders!"

"It is quite an amazing process, slowing the process of nature itself."

_"What? How?"_ Dipper asked.

"By preventing bacteria from decomposing the body. There are a number of different ways to prevent this of course, and quite a few popular world leaders that have had such well-done jobs that nearly a century later, they still look like they're resting. Even when Lincoln was exhumed for the umpteenth time, people said that he still looked like he always did! It's a-"

While his brother decided to go full nerd on the kid (If they didn't already have a reason to hate them, this would probably be the thing that pushed them over the edge.) Stanley placed the lid back on, and got out of the hole. He started to push soil back in, until a good portion of the grave had been filled. There was still a pile of discarded dirt on the hill, but he figured that no one would really notice, or care. They were further back in the cemetery, hardly anyone had a reason to come back here, and Mrs. Crawford had verified that her grave wasn't going to have any visitors in the near future.

With that job done, he dusted his hands off on his pants, and then turned to his brother. He was glad that Stanford had his back turned, as he talked with the boy. That meant he didn't see how high he jumped when he realized the girl, Mabel, was standing right behind him. She was staring at the grave, not at him.

Stanley felt a slight twinge in his stomach, a nagging feeling that reminded him of something, a distant feeling, memory. Whatever it was, it gave him the chills, and yet he felt terrible. He had no idea what it could be, and yet did, all at the same time. Taking the kids to a graveyard, especially with their seemingly recent deaths... Maybe that wasn't a good idea. But it wasn't like he had decided to bring them along, so it wasn't his fault. Annoyed, he attempted to quash the tiny flare of something, which he refused to identify as any sort of empathy or guilt, that had decided to poke at his guts.

"S'almost twelve."

_"What?"_

"Come stand at the top of the hill, you'll see."

Together, they scrambled to the top of the hill. It was not one of the tallest in the area, but it did provide a solid view of the cemetery. It was possible to see around most of the hills now that they were here. The forest closed the space in on three sides, while the town was the remainder, the exit out of the place. It shone yellow-gold in the distance. Trees dotted along the hillsides. There was one resting at the top of the hill.

Stanley leaned against it for support. He was slightly short of breath, and his arms were tired. Digging graves was no easy task, despite the great deal of practice he had gotten over the years. He could barely average one per night anymore. It used to be three, even five if they were working hard, but now, it was a single, miserable one. They weren't growing any younger, either. How long would it take for that number to reach zero?

_"We never had this many stars in California."_

"Light pollution. Clouds up the sky so you can barely see anything. Like Ford without his glasses."

"I heard that!"

_"It's very pretty."_

The looked up at the clusters of stars in the sky. they were so closely positioned together, the horizon looked lighter than it was dark. There were faint splashes of colour coming from some of the groups of stars. Faint blues, purples, and even yellow, all stirred together in one big mixing pot of light.

"Huh? Well yeah, I guess."

Suddenly, another fistful of glitter had been thrown towards the moon. For one brief moment, the sparkles looked like just more stars in the bright summer's sky. They shimmered and winked, just as silent as the distant blots of light. Then, they all came raining down upon them. They drifted through the air, like flakes snow, and vanished once they touched the ground.

_"It's nice but..."_

He looked at the girl.

"But?"

_"I miss the sky at home."_

"S'normal."

_"I... I really want to go home."_ She started, her voice starting to wobble. _"I don't like it here, I want to leave."_

"You can't."

She seemed to realize that tears, crocodile or not, would have absolutely no affect on him. Or so he told himself. She took in a sharp inhale of breath, and seemed to puff up, like a bird whose feathers had been ruffled. An invisible wind started to stir the grass, swirling around them as she stared at him. He didn't mind invisible things, they were a part of everyday life, and didn't let the anger outwardly bother him.

_"I hate you!"_

"I know."

He said the words to no one, for she had already left the graveyard long behind.


	5. Recreation and Repenting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Chapter Title: They May Not be Able to Drink and Gamble in Cannon but Boy Howdy They can here and you bet that I will Take Advantage of it here and I lost track of what I should be capitalizing in this title along the way
> 
> Read, review, and enjoy!

_"How come you do that?"_

"Do what?" He asked the question to Dipper aloud, but responded to his brother's words with signs. _"Don't aggravate the pig. Just let it sleep there."_

"But that's my chair!" Stanley turned his attention away from Waddles, and fiddled with the deck of cards for a moment.

_"Not anymore from what it looks like. Just try not to bother the thing Stanley. I think it might be venomous."_ He waved the bright red marks that were still on his own hand for his brother to see. "Or maybe it was that radioactive spider-man that I came into contact with earlier. He refused to let me take any pictures of him!"

"Oh, so I can't harass the pig, but you can harass spider-people?" Stanley challenged.

"I wanted pictures! Pictures of spider-men!" Stanford dropped the container of chips down on the table with more force than was necessary.

_"Hey what am I invisible?!"_

Both of them pointedly looked at the empty chair that had been pulled out at the card table in the den. There was clearly someone sitting there, as the puzzle section of the paper was spread across it, and a floating pen was filling in the blanks. There was a second pen hovering as well. It was doodling along the margins of the page, but its owner appeared to be standing.

Either that, or the boy was ambidextrous. Stanford had completely forgotten to ask them about that when it came to twin impersonation. He'd have to ask that. However, his plans for quadruple the amount of trouble that could be caused by the four of them combined was interrupted by a sharp nudge from his brother.

"Oh, uh, right. We find that there are quite a few ghosts who can't communicate through spoken word, and we got a little tired of always finding messages written in blood-"

"-or ketchup, whenever they ran out-"

"-in the house. Many of them are older folks anyway, so they already know sign language, too, and you may as well learn a new language while you're dead if you don't."

"Plus Ford's hard of hearing."

"So are you!"

"It's called willful deafness." Stanley replied, crossing his arms.

"We're both old. It's convenient, and pretty much part of our job at this point."

_"Oh."_

"There's a couple of books on the third floor basement last I checked. Mr. Wentworth probably knows where they all are if you can't find them. And Mrs. Jenkins used to be a teacher if you want any-"

_Ding-dong!_

"I'll get it." He said, rising from his feet. "Stanley stop fussing over that pig and straighten out the chips will you? They're all disorganized!"

Stanley rolled his eyes but did as he was told. he dumped the poker chips out of the tin and started to arrange them according to colour. Stanford left the room, with a spring in his step than neither of the children had ever seen from him before. It was especially strange, seeing as he was so enthusiastic about trying to befriend them all of the time.

_"Who's here? Another one of your jerky friends, you jerk?"_

Mabel's insults weren't getting any better as time went on.

"Nah, He's probably the least jerkiest out of all of us. So take it easy on the haunting alright?"

_"Never!" "Sure thing."_

Mabel threw things around the room before she decided to leave. She stirred up the neat stacks of poker chips that Stanley had formed, and she overturned the table. Luckily, it was a flimsy, foldable one. This was well-hidden for the most part, seeing as a tablecloth covered the cheap, plastic surface. Stanley was able to catch it before the anticipatory crash and splinters.

This did not stop the chips from sliding off the table and on the ground. Stanley bent over to pick them up, and then winced. His back gave a painful twinge, and for a brief second, he wondered if it was possible for him to bend any further. But, he managed to scoop up a handful of chips, and dump them back onto the table. Much to his relief, the rest of them were swept up by an invisible wave of power, and spread across the table.

_"Sorry. She's still really... Angry."_

"Don't sweat it kid. It's a normal reaction to technical imprisonment."

_"It's not just that."_

"Anger's a stage of grief as well."

_"We're not dead!"_ He snapped.

The package of cards was torn open. The deck tumbled out and sliced through the air, dancing dangerously close to his neck, circling around like a pack of wolves. He wasn't fazed by the blue-and-white blurs that slashed through the air around him, but he did make sure to stand very still as they were pointed towards him. If he was going to die, he did not want it to be as a result of fifty-two too many paper cuts making him bleed out.

Before he could try to talk his way out of the situation (Stanley sincerely hoped that the kid was not about to finish his reply with "but you will be.") the cards stopped circling. He only barely managed to move out of the way when they were all sent flying towards him. Stanley was caught up in the flurry of white, he could feel the edges scraping against his neck, and the hands he had raised to shield his face. The light attack stopped. When he put his hands down, he saw that the cards were all sorted into their proper places, and the jokers were left face up on the table.

_"But we may as well be."_

That line completely reeked of sad backstory, something Stanley knew he was not emotionally prepared for. This was Ford's area of expertise, not his. Luckily, his brother decided to return with their poker partner. Coincidentally, he was probably the most qualified to take care of a children out of all of them. Also he was the least qualified to deal with ghosts.

Perhaps, qualified was not the right term to describe Fiddleford's opinions on ghosts and the supernatural. For he certainly was qualified. He had spent over a year performing research in Gravity Falls when he was younger, as an assistant to his brother. So he knew what he was doing, for the most part. Fiddleford preferred the hard sciences, over the "airy fairy" things that they did. He was more interested in building gigantic robots than uncovering giant sentient ones haunted by ghosts from abandoned mineshafts. He was not too fond of ghosts, or being haunted. He couldn't take many things in stride, like they had grown accustomed to.

Fiddleford was the most gentlemanly out of them as well. They could both put on the charm when needed, yes, but they didn't see any need to do it with a close friend. Fiddleford always did however, probably because he was a real gentleman, and Stanley was a conman. He slipped his jacket off his frail shoulders, and hung it on the back of his chair. Then, he sat down.

"Hullo Stanley. How are you?"

"F-" Stanley's voice came out as a squeak, he still hadn't mentally recovered from his near-death by paper cuts. "Fine thanks. You?"

"You sure you're fine?"

"Yeah."

"There are cards in your hair."

He shook his head, and Stanford caught the cards as they fluttered down. Fiddleford took them, and Stanford went back to organizing the poker chips according to colour. Fiddleford then put the deck together. He never trusted the deck when it was already laid out before he arrived. Seeing as he did fix it every time, in the hopes that he would forget to shuffle the deck, Stanley couldn't blame him. Although, they were organized by someone else this time around. Not that would be able to stop him from mixing up the cards as he saw fit.

"Let's see your sleeves."

Stanley pulled up his sleeves, showing that there were no cards hidden beneath them. Satisfied, he started to deal cards out to everyone at the table, with the ease of someone who had done so many times before. All it took was a slight flick of his wrist to send another card to whoever was receiving one next. Stanford always peeked at his as he received each one, but Stanley waited until he could fan them out before looking.

"Is the pig playin' fellas?" Fiddleford asked, pointing to the chair where Waddles rested, and then to the seemingly empty space at the cards table.

"No gambling for minors." Stanford said, before Stanley could say "yes."

"Minors?"

"Dipper is sitting there." Stanford explained. "The pig belongs to his sister, Mabel."

"Oh." He smoothed over his momentary surprise, and smiled politely at the thin air. "Nice to meet you Dipper. I'm Fiddleford."

_"A-any relation to Fiddleford McGucket, the philanthropic multi-millionaire and owner of Strawberry?"_ He squeaked.

"Actually, I'm Fiddleford McGucket the multi- _billionaire_ , but I can see why you might get the two of us confused."

_"Ooohmygosh! I-I-I need to uh- go find Mabel! M-Mabel! MABEL!"_

Judging by the sound of his voice, he had stumbled out of the room, off to find his sister and tell him about his findings.

"New... Tenants?"

There were three glasses, filled with ice and nothing else sitting on the table. This was quickly remedied by Stanley however. Almost instantly, he took a long drink out of his, only pausing for a moment between gulps to gasp out;

"Unfortunately."

"The younger they get, the harder it is." Stanford sighed, pushing up his glasses. "Especially when they're so..."

"It's the twin thing, right?"

"Yeah."

There was a brief pause of awkwardness between the trio. This did not stop Fiddleford from noticing that Stanley was trying to slip out an ace from underneath the tablecloth and into his waiting arms. Stanley's hands was smacked, Fiddleford had quite good responsive reflexes. He could easily stop him out of the corner of his eye, while he provided all of them with a light for their cigars. Stanley only sulked for a moment, rubbing the back of his hand before he looked at his cards again.

"What's the limit tonight?"

Stanley was about to yell that the sky was the limit, and he would cream the both of them, but Stanford answered before he could.

"Neither of us can go over five hundred tonight."

"Combined?"

Stanley blew smoke at his brother, choosing to answer for them this time around.

"Each."

It didn't take much to push Stanford into forgetting his precaution however. Once they got started, he was more invested in the statistics and probabilities than how much he was betting and losing. They talked only lightly, mostly delving into silence as they tried to keep their hand close, and their reactions to each new deal a secret.

They took turns sending out the cards, so no one could argue that whoever had to double as the dealer was cheating. Well, one could always argue it with Stanley, but with two (four if you wanted to count the fact that all of them wore glasses) pairs of eyes watching him carefully from either side, he didn't want to risk anything. His palm still stung from the first smack he received. He kept it pressed against the icy-cold sides of his highball, only moving it to pick up whatever new cards were slid in his direction, to deal them out himself.

Stanford balanced both a cigar and a pen in one hand. His extra finger made this not a problem for him, although he would occasionally bring the pen to his lips by accident. There was a black smudge on them because of this. He kept the score, keeping track of how much everyone had, and who had won the most rounds. Fiddleford had slipped a napkin under Stanford's wrist, as he was inclined to tap without thinking, leaving ashes on the table. Fiddleford kept the ashtray to himself, he was much more thoughtful than either of them cared to be.

_"Uh-"_

The quiet voice had come from the unoccupied chair.

"Don't you ever take up smoking Dipper." Stanford absently said, dividing his chips.

"Or drinking. It's a vicious cycle."

"Or gambling. I ain't gettin' arrested because you got caught with a fake ID."

_"I'm Mabel."_

"I'm all in."

Fiddleford smiled slightly when Stanley said this, a gesture that Stanford could not help but notice.

_"What?"_

"Her too."

"I'll hold." Stanford said.

_"I just wanted to say that-"_

"Pay up suckers!"

The two Fords looked at Stanley's cards. Stanford knew he had made a good decision, but Fiddleford was a great deal more happy with the results.

"Read 'em and weep Stanley Pines, read 'em and weep." With a maniacal grin Fiddleford spread out his hand across the table.

" _Oooh_ , bankrupt again Stanley. You should've set some aside."

_"Are any of you guys even listening to me?"_

"What?! No way! I demand a do-over!"

"With whose money?" Stanford asked.

"Oh I'll show you whose money!"

Stanley got up from the table, abandoning his seven-and-seven, and letting his chair screech loudly across the floor. He stormed off to his room, prepared to root around for some kind of valuable he was willing to part with for the name of his greatness at anything luck-based.

He was about to remove the false mirror that sat on the wall above his dresser when he noted someone else standing in the room with him. His anger momentarily subsided as he saw the girl. He had already nearly faced a card-related death that day, he didn't want to annoy the other kid either.

He cleared his throat, and shifted somewhat awkwardly on his feet. Stanley wouldn't have been able to tell, he was much too focused on his own problems to notice, but the girl appeared just as uncomfortable as him, if not more with the situation. Her glassy eyes were blinking rapidly, pearly-white tears seemed to be filling them. She wasn't trying to look intimidating, nor was she attempting to look small, and heart-breakingly sad, either. She appeared genuinely upset, not that Stanley was able to realize this at the time.

He was more worried about the many, many weapons that he had in his bedroom. They were mainly in place to fend off any weirdoes with ladder fetishes, who might try to bring one into their house. But he wondered how hard it would be for a ghost to find and use them against him. He didn't really think that either kid would go through with something so damaging, but he couldn't help but feel a little concern at the same time. It wasn't like they knew much about the kids. They weren't even cleared on if they were ghosts or some other sort of weird supernatural thing yet. When he thought about it, they didn't even know what their last names were, if they even had last names to use!

_"I-I'm sorry."_

"What?"

Stanley could not quite register what he was hearing. Out of all the things he had expected to hear coming from the child's mouth, this was not one of them. He could not help but be startled, and in need of some repetition.

_"I shouldn't have-"_ Her hands balled into fists, and she clung to the sleeves of her sweater. _"-said that I-"_

"Oh... That."

It took him a moment more to recover from what exactly it was that he was hearing. She was apologizing. She didn't actually hate him. That was nice, he guessed. Ford would be thrilled to hear that he had somehow managed to get the kid to un-hate him, and they would start to get along, or at least try. He wasn't really sure where this was going or why there was an apology. Being nice and using manners gave him this strange, burning feeling in his stomach that he didn't know how to react to. Maybe he was allergic.

"Uh, don't sweat it, kid. You were emotional and stuff."

He tried to give her a little pat on the head, reaching out to where the reflection was beside him. The air was colder where she was, he could feel the ghostly brushing of hair against the palm of his hand. He quickly withdrew, immediately feeling awkward and stupid for doing so. He abruptly bent over to rummage through his sock drawer, wondering if there was still jewelry that he might be able to bet left in the false bottom. There was a garish bracelet stuffed in a far corner, and he was able to dig up a string of pearls as well. He grabbed both, and tucked them into his pocket. He couldn't wait to rub his victory into those two idiots faces.

His excitement at winning the next round was momentarily forgotten as he looked back to where the kid had been standing. Stanley felt a small twinge in his stomach. He was having a lot of those lately, he wanted them to leave. It was probably just the drinks he had drunk, nothing that he needed to contemplate, or worry about.

Deciding not to think about whatever weird emotions had decided to affect him, he continued to tell himself that excuse. He told himself that was why he didn't feel like touching his seven-and-seven anymore, and that was why he had trouble focusing, despite his enthusiasm from before. There was no sort of gut feeling bothering him about the kids, and whatever was bothering him. He wasn't curious about what Dipper had said. He wasn't even suspicious of Mabel's incredibly sudden apology. Because it was alcohol and bad cigars that was making him feel this way.

Coincidentally, it was these things (Whether it was the excuse or not was moot, because the result would have been the same anyway.) were what caused him to lose it all during the next round.

Maybe he should have listened to Ford's limit of keeping under five hundred.


	6. Tragic Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Chapter Title: No Triangles were Involved in the Making of the Poor Decisions the Characters Make in this Chapter

It was one of those lazy summer evenings. The weather was humid, spreading a sticky, warm feeling across everything. There was not so much as a breath of wind to blow the stagnant air along. Despite the fact that the sun had long since set, the muggy air still lingered. It was almost a relief to be around ghosts, and the chill they spread. They were in the den, sitting in front of the TV.

Stanley and the pig had come to an agreement when it came to his spot. The pig could sleep in there all day as much as Stan cared, but it had to get up the moment he wanted to sit down. Of course, that didn't mean the thing couldn't stare up at him with those creepy pig eyes. Begging to be let up on the chair... Adorably blinking and tilting its head in just the cutest way... Stan shook his head, and tore his eyes away from the kid's pig. He was _not_ letting it sit with him. Luckily, the arrangement worked. He was usually too busy to sit in front of the TV and worsen his eyesight.

Speaking of worsened eyesight, Stanford was too stubborn to turn on a light, and was reading his magazine in near-darkness. Stanley would have bugged him about it (hypocrisy at its finest) but Ford was falling asleep, he wouldn't want to be bothered. However, just because Stan knew that, it didn't mean either of the twins were aware of it.

_"You don't just deal with ghosts, right?"_

The question was a bit out of nowhere. Stan suspiciously squinted at Dipper, wondering what he was trying to say, and wishing that he would just flat-out state it to them instead of beating around the bush.

"Ghosts are a job, everything else is currently more of a..." Stanford paused, yawning. "Hobby."

Stan snorted at this.

"Speak for yourself."

_"What kind of supernatural things to you know how to uh-"_

Scripted. Why else would Mabel be talking to them? She wasn't exactly their biggest fan, even if she had apologized.

"Deal with?"

_"Yeah."_ The twins said this simultaneously.

"Plenty. It's not all ghosts and werewolves-"

_"There are werewolves here? Are any of them single- ouch! Dipper!"_

Definitely scripted. They must have talked about asking these questions beforehand.

"Spells, rituals, curses, divination- Don't give me that look Stanley Pines, unlike Ma I am certified and genuine-

"He mailed in a coupon and a nickel from a comic when we were ten to get the certificate." Stanley said, fake-whispering to the twins.

"Well," he huffed. "It all sort of blurs into one. I bit off a bit more than I could chew when I was younger, but I narrowed things down to ghosts after I found Stanley..."

Stanford fell asleep before he could finish what he was going to say.

_"What about you?"_ Mabel asked, now looking at him. _"Were you always putting on funerals for dead people?"_

"Nope."

_"Have you guys always worked together?"_

"Nope."

_"Did-"_

"Tragic story for tragic story kid." Stan brusquely said. "There won't be a dry eye in the house."

He figured that deal would be enough to prevent them from trying to spill a tragic backstory on him. After all, who wanted to hear about the (most likely equally) tragic past of old men who lived alone in the woods? He wasn't up for all of this fuzzy, emotional, touchy-feely stuff. Especially not at- he glanced at the clock, but stopped that train of thought. It was barely past nine, and still prime time for spilling sad stories that he didn't want to hear.

Well... Perhaps, he could admit to being a _little_ curious. Why were two kids seemingly dead at twelve? Why did he have this annoying, nagging feeling that Shermy had _grandchildren_ , who were _twins_? Being dangerously curious was Stanford's job, not his. But his mind continued to wander. He wanted to know why they were here.

By this point, the kids had won him over, but Stanley did not plan on admitting that aloud. He would draw things out a little longer before actually giving in and telling them so.

_"What?"_

Several ghosts, who had been invisible before, kindly vacated the room for them. Stanley seriously doubted that was the case however. Nosy people around here were always interested in any new news to spread through the ghostly grapevine. For every ghost that had just left the room, there were probably three more under the floorboards, listening at keyholes, and hiding behind the couch.

"You're dead at twelve. Something tragic musta' happened."

_"We're not dead!"_

"Then what are you?"

Dipper ran both hands through his hair, pushing up his hat.

_"It's a long story."_

"We're older than you. Ours'll be longer."

_"We think you might be able to help us."_

"Ford's area of expertise, not mine." He replied, gesturing to Stanford.

At the mention of his name, Stanford snored loudly. Or maybe that was because he had been doing so ever since he fell asleep. Whether or not it was the latter or former did not matter, seeing as he was awoken by Stanley saying;

"I guess it would _solve_ that _mystery_ of-"

One would think Stanford had been pretending to sleep the entire time, based upon how quickly his eyes snapped open and he rolled off the couch. He rose to his feet once more and dusted off his front.

"Solved? Which one? Whatever is under the gnomes' hats? Why my soufflés always collapse? How we can catch that Gobblewonker prototype before Dan does?!"

"What these two kids are."

"Not in the top three." He frowned. "But still in the top ten at least. I'll go get the marshmallows."

_"The what?"_

"We'll head out, away from all the EAVESDROPPERS, here."

Like Stanley had suspected, four more ghosts left the room, vacating from their spot behind the couch. He would have laughed if it wasn't so annoying. The kids were still obviously confused about what was going on, but they were figuring out the ropes. It was like prison, only more- Oh no wait. This was _exactly_ like prison. They were more or less running a prison, and keeping the local ghosts in line.

Something about the thought made Stanley bristle. It caused his hairs to stand on end and his fists to clench. He chose to go find his brother, rather than dwelling on thoughts that made him uncomfortable. Every single cupboard was unlocked by the time he reached the kitchen. There were bags of marshmallows stuffed under one of his arms, and his rolled up magazine in the other. He had one of his note-taking books clamped between his teeth, but that did not seem to be stopping Stanford from chewing on something. Sugar cubes. He could already smell the coffee brewing, ready for their next misadventure... No... That was in the past. Stanford wasn't hunting monsters with a fraction of the intensity he had when they were young.

Stanley filled up their matching mugs with exactly what they needed, and then trooped out to the back yard. Dipper and Mabel curiously followed, all while lighting the way for them. Stanford tried to say something, but his mouth was full.

"Watch for that bottomless pit." Stanley translated.

Dipper raised an eyebrow, and merely floated over the gaping hole of dubious proportions.

The grass on their property was perpetually tall. Stanford had somehow angered the spirit that inhabited their lawn, and it had cursed them by making the grass stay at exactly the same height, no matter how many times they cut it. Not really a problem, since both of them weren't interested in cutting the grass to begin with (read, they were too easily tired out by mowing) and neither wanted to pay some teenager to do it for them.

The tall grass concealed the bottomless pit (at least until it was too late) amongst other things. Rusted parts of abandoned inventions, long since chucked into the back, lay tangled between shoots. There were white-and-brown mushrooms, which took advantage of the damp provided by the grass. Stanley had trained them to grow in patterns after discovering they could be bribed to move with shiny rocks. From the attic window, it was possible to see the message "Stanley is the handsome twin" written. But at ground-level, nothing but green was visible.

They trampled to the edge of the property. It was here the curse started to wear down a little. There was a circular patch of dirt, and dead, blackened grass surrounding it. A few logs were already piled in the center, waiting for them. They were right by the forest that encircled the house. The house was barely visible. The back porch was unlit, and the only light came from the attic. It was a small, triangular patch of gold in the dark of the night.

Within moments, they had a fire going, and were sitting around it. The light would keep most of the unwanted away, (three more who had been following them flew off when the fire began) and the distance from the house made the message clear: they wanted privacy.

He took out a pocket knife, and then broke off branches from a near-by tree. He sharpened one end, and speared a marshmallow on the other. The twins looked at him strangely.

"What? We may as well get some use out of this fire. I've even got gelatin-free ones too."

They shrugged, and started to roast marshmallows as well. Mabel had taken the gelatin-free. (Perhaps it had to do with her pig, and knowing where it came from?) She had quickly torched hers, turning it into a burning, melted mess. The sickly-sweet smell of burnt marshmallows spread through the air. Then, she reached for another, and it met the same sticky fate as the first.

_"I always take mine burnt."_ She announced, taking a bite out of her food.

Mabel didn't seem to mind the temperature (or her braces) as she ate... Mabel... the ghost-like child... was... eating? Stanford was about to point this out, but everyone was just as surprised as him.

"How corporeal are you?"

_"I dunno'."_ She said through her mouthful of food. _"I couldn't eat before."_

"I think you two should explain how you got to where you are now."

_"Right."_

They both swallowed hard, and then looked at each other.

_"We talked-_

_"-and we're ok with telling you."_

_"Well, to start, I guess we should say that I'm Dipper, and this is Mabel Pines."_

"P-" Stanford stopped himself, before they could get off topic. "Go on."

_"We're twins, and were born in 1999. We're going to be thirteen, right on the last day of summer."_

_"We're also kinda'-"_ She squeezed her brother's hand. _"Cursed."_

There was a loud exhale from Stanley, as if he had been holding his breath the entire time. No one looked at him however. Stanford was focused on listening to their story, all while trying to jot down notes in his book.

"How so?"

_"We're getting weaker. We can't touch things, eat. You know, more like... Ghosts. Except sometimes not. Eventually, we will be."_

"Do you know when _eventually_ is?"

_"The next ecli- ecla-"_

_"Eclipse."_

Instantly, he ran through every possible eclipse that would happen in 2012. He kept track of them all, for research purposes. He found the date almost immediately. Then, Stanford stared up at the sky, where the moon hung above them. It's ghostly white could rival the twin's. It was like a great, large eye. It didn't need to have a pupil or iris to give off the impression. Not when their eyes were glazed over too.

"There's a lunar eclipse. This year, on November 28th."

Why had they bothered to come outside to avoid eavesdropping, when even the sky itself was watching what they did?

_"That's so soon."_ Mabel whispered.

Stanford was amazed with how calm and level his voice seemed to be. It was as if he was not a part of the conversation, like his words and his thoughts were completely detached from the situation, the rather grim situation that seemed to be at hand.

"Do you know what you were cursed with?"

_"No. But you know a lot about them, right? If we gave you some details could you...?"_

He had done curse-breaking in his youth. Maybe if they gave more details on their situation, he could discover what kind of a curse had been placed upon them, and find a way to reverse the effects, before it was too late. Stanley noticeably perked up at this. He at least looked more miserable than he had when the twins were talking about their imminent deaths.

"I might be able to figure it out, yes."

_"It was an accident!"_ She blurted out. _"I pushed him out of the way, and the next thing I knew, I was in the hospital!"_

_"There was this creepy doctor."_ He said, filling in for his sister. _"He kept saying that he could do something to save her. But everyone else said that once your body goes comatose for too long, you'll either die, or lose everything. Our parents already had the funeral booked, and they kept telling me that I needed to spend less time at the hospital. But the doctor kept on reminding me, every time I visited. He said that only I could get her to wake up, because she saved me. He said that if I..."_

His voice died out. He went to staring at the flickering flames. There was a far-away look on his face, as if he was miles from where they were, still sitting in the hospital with his sister. He looked almost unreachable, too far gone for any of them to see, his eyes a focused on only things that he could see. Then, he outstretched his arm to the fire, as if he was going to shake hands with whatever invisible thing was before him. Common sense told him not to touch the flames however, no matter how cursed he was, and so his hand dropped again.

_"Everyone kept saying that it wad a miracle, that I was a miracle, and must of had some crazy guardian angel looking out for me. They even got me Waddles as a get-better present!"_ She laughed a little, and her voice cracked. _"But then we both started to fall through things, and some of the time we were invisible. We went back to the hospital, but he told us that was what we got for trying to cheat death."_

_"Then he gave us those mirrors, and told us not to break them-"_

_"-we never saw him again-_

_"-our parents had to deal with the loss of both of us-"_

_"-so we got sent here-"_

_"-and here we are."_

There was a long silence, as he took every aspect of the story in. They were cursed, but not dead. There was still plenty of time for them to figure things out, too. He would clear his schedule of any projects and focus on this. The fire was starting to calm down, but no one bothered to add more wood. Stanford poked it with his stick. The end crumbled away into embers.

"Thank-you for telling us children. We can work on figuring this out, first thing tomorrow."

They both nodded, and got up from their seats. They vanished into thin air, but Mabel quickly returned, grabbing the bag of marshmallows before making a second exit.

"I'll stay out and watch the fire." Stanley said.

"You could just-"

_Douse it._ But Stanford figured that his brother wanted some time alone, to think.

"Alright. You want the marshmallows?"

"You want to foot the bill for new dentures after I eat them?"

Stanford took the remainder, not intent on losing money because Stanley got his false teeth stuck together again.

"Hey Sixer?"

"Yes?"

"Didn't Shermy have a kid? A son?"

"I was thinking the exact same thing."

"Should we-?"

"Let's leave it for now."

"G'night."

"Night."


End file.
